


Knife Fight

by Saber_Wing



Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Avengers Family, BAMF Tony Stark, Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Stabbing, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober - Day 8: Stab Wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 19:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20913053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saber_Wing/pseuds/Saber_Wing
Summary: One moment, Tony was saying goodbye to an associate he’d met for dinner. The next, he was on the ground with something sharp, metal, and definitively blade-like sticking out of his thigh.





	Knife Fight

Tony had never been stabbed.

Oh, he’d been in plenty of dangerous situations. Bombings. Assassination attempts. Alien uprisings. He’d even been _impaled_ before, albeit in the heat of battle. But that was _war. _It was different. He tangled with supervillains on a regular basis, _and _he was doing it in high-tech suits of armor. Of course, _they _wanted him dead.

That wasn’t to say people hadn’t tried to murder Tony _off _the battlefield. He’d been CEO of Stark Industries for more years than he cared to remember, and he was still the brilliant mind responsible for most of the inventions they cranked out. Of course, jealous competitors and public haters had taken shots at Tony before, usually literally. With _guns_, like reasonable potential murderers. Most company executives and societal rejects didn’t have the balls to charge him with blades in broad daylight, but…well. There was a first time for everything.

One moment, Tony was saying goodbye to an associate he’d met for dinner. The next, he was on the ground with something sharp, metal, and definitively blade-like sticking out of his thigh.

The guy who’d so rudely tackled him – some jack-off in faded blue jeans and a hooded sweatshirt – still had his hand on the knife, and he moved to yank it out, hovering between Tony’s legs.

He snapped into action, clamping his thighs around the guy’s neck, and with more strength than he knew he had, lifted himself up to sit on top of his shoulders. He twisted his body around behind his attacker’s head and clamped down harder, cutting off his air supply.

Sweatshirt guy struggled to his knees, tried to shake him off, and _fuck, _the pain took Tony’s breath away. The knife was still in his thigh, hilt protruding upward, and his attacker jarred it every time he tried to throw him off. Tony could feel the blood soaking into his dress pants as he tightened his death grip. And if this shit worked_, _he was going to owe Widow his life. That, and maybe some cool new gadgets. One thing at a time.

The man twisted, turned. Flailed. Tried to pry at Tony’s legs around his throat. He managed to get his hands around the knife again, and while he didn’t have the leverage to yank it out, he used it anyway, thrusting it in even _deeper_. Tony cried out, grinding his teeth and silently willing himself not to pass out. Although dying with a man’s head between his thighs probably wasn’t the _worst _way to go, it might be nice if the fucker bought him _dinner _first.

It was a contest of wills, now. One Tony was determined to win. His would-be assassin was running out of air, and the asshole lost his footing and fell backward, knocking the billionaire’s head hard against the pavement.

Tony saw stars. His world narrowed to a point. To that knife and his thighs, clamped around the assassin’s throat like a vise. He could do this. He _would _do this. He was not going to pass out and die, in a three-piece suit outside of a restaurant fancy enough to serve _caviar_. He refused.

Unfortunately for Tony, their little fall seemed to have given his attacker an idea. He was rearing up now, repeatedly slamming Tony’s head back against the pavement, and his grip on the man loosened. Sweatshirt guy went for the knife in his thigh again, now in a good enough position to properly grip the weapon. And shit, Tony would rather yank it out himself than let this murderous fuck have it back again.

So, he did.

Reached down, wrapped both hands around the blood-stained hilt, and _pulled. _

Tony screamed. He couldn’t help it, but he didn’t dare pause in his assault. He tightened his thighs again, his vision going fuzzy as the agony of the movement washed over him. His hearing faded in and out dangerously, blood gushing hard and fast onto the pavement, and Tony twisted himself around, coming to rest on the man’s chest. The billionaire swung his legs behind him just as he brought the blade down, breathing hard.

He pressed the knife into sweatshirt douche’s throat. Just enough to draw blood, and he got the message. He stopped struggling.

Someone was pulling him off the guy, saying his name, but Tony couldn’t make it out through the white noise in his head. They took the knife from him and thrust both hands over Tony’s wound, and shit, that hurt. _Fuck_. He might have screamed again, cried, but he couldn’t tell. Couldn’t make much sense of anything as the world faded out around him.

_Oh, _Tony thought as he gazed down at the ground, blood pooling around him. Wasn’t that _a lot _of blood, for one little stab wound? He wasn’t _that_ kind of doctor, but hadn’t that knife been where an artery should be?

Tony’s fear was a vague, distant sort of thing, and he let the black drag him under, wondering if he wouldn’t die in a three-piece suit after all.

* * *

Later, he was told that his survival was nothing short of miraculous.

Sweatshirt douche – an undercover Hydra supporter, go figure – had been aiming for Tony’s femoral artery. The fact that the guy hit just a few millimeters off had been the only thing that saved him. Still, even so, he’d nicked it, which was more than enough. If the paramedics hadn’t been _right there _after Tony yanked it out like a splinter_, _he would have been dead in minutes.

Still, Tony _felt _half dead when he woke that first time – his eyes were too heavy to open, but he could hear voices murmuring in the background. Someone was holding his hand.

Tony heard a shaky intake of breath as he lay there – whoever was squeezing his fingers brought them to their lips, kissing it with a tenderness that made him want to cry, even without _seeing_, and of course it was Steve. How could it ever be anyone else?

Steve clasped Tony’s hand tight, resting his forehead against it. He kissed it again, and…why were his cheeks wet? Was he _crying?_

“I should have been there,” Steve was saying, speaking to someone in the background.

“Where, his business dinner?” the other voice – Natasha, Tony recognized. “Tony’s a big boy, Steve. What are you gonna do, tail him to restaurants? Lurk behind him at board meetings?”

“If it keeps him safe.” Steve clasped both of Tony’s hands tightly in his. “He should have brought guards with him. Where was Happy, taking the night off?” And Tony’s eyelids were _so _heavy, his fingers made of lead, but his lover’s voice came out ragged and broken, and that was wrong. He needed to _fix _it.

He tried to speak -- to say _something_, anything. All that came out was a strangled groan. There was a surprised intake of breath, and his boyfriend squeezed his fingers again.

“Tony?”

_Come on, Stark. You can do this. _

He tried to move them and was rewarded when they twitched, closing around Steve’s. Tony’s grip was loose, and he was weak as a kitten, but it was enough. And when he finally managed to pry his eyes open to slits, the first thing he saw was Steve’s smile. Tearful, broken, but filled with so much _relief, _it nearly brought Tony tears of his own.

“Hey. There you are.” Steve jerked forward, carding his fingers gently through Tony’s hair. He kissed his forehead, trembling with emotion. “You really scared us; you know that?”

Apparently, he had – Tony could see the other Avengers draped haphazardly over various pieces of furniture around the room. Chair, couches, pull-out cots. The whole nine yards. The only two awake were Steve and Natasha. Natasha, who was smiling gently at him from the other side of the bed. She reached for him, taking his other hand.

Tony did his best to smile back – he felt so _weak, _he wasn’t sure his mouth even twitched, but they seemed to understand anyway. His lips cracked when he tried to move them. Evidence of how dry they were, and it almost _hurt _to grind out words, but he forced them anyway.

Despite feeling like he’d been dragged a few thousand miles over a bed of jagged rocks, Tony assumed that the horrible, stabbing pain in his thigh meant he was still alive. Pain wasn’t supposed to be a thing, if the afterlife _was. _And that meant he had to tell them. Had to say it, because he _hadn’t_ died in that stupid three-piece suit, in front of that shallow restaurant with those shallow people after all. He was alive.

He was alive, and he had to _tell _her.

He tugged on Natasha’s hand – tried to, anyway. Really, all he did was tighten his fingers a bit more around hers, though he’d take what he could get. And Tony swallowed hard, willing his dry throat to cooperate with him long enough to get the words out, but his friend knew what he wanted. She knew everything.

Natasha scared him. He also loved her – loved all of them -- more than life itself, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Saw what you did, over-achiever. Made the nine-o’clock news.” She scooted her chair closer to the bed, threading their fingers together.

“I like to stand out.” Tony’s voice was barely a whisper. He was sure she had to strain to hear him, but she managed. Her eyes were soft as she looked at him. 

“Told you that move would come in handy.” She stroked her thumb over his knuckles, gaze never leaving Tony’s face. And there was worry in her eyes, but something like pride beneath it, shining, like a beacon. “You did good, Shellhead.”

“Yeah?” Tony glanced from Natasha to Steve, vision blurred, eyes barely tracking. He was so tired. But their answering smiles were like sunshine on a rainy day.

“Yeah.” Steve answered, sniffling, swiping an arm across his face. He kept his voice soft, tender. “Next guy will think twice before he comes after you, won’t he?”

Tony tried to resist as his eyes slid shut. He really did. He shook his head. Tried to pry them back open again, but the exhaustion got the better of him. He sank deeper into the mattress, hands falling slack. He must have made some noise of protest, because Steve murmured to him softly. Neither of them relaxed their grip on his hands.

“Shh, sleep. We’ll be right here.” Steve murmured, cupping his cheek.

Tony had never been stabbed before. Hated hospitals, with a passion that could barely be matched. But it hardly mattered, surrounded by these people who loved him.

Also, he’d nearly strangled a man with his thighs. That had to count for something.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one sitting, today, and I'm very proud of myself. It's for the "stabbed" Whumptober prompt, which isn't supposed to be until the eighth, but I do what I want. Also, who can resist a good stabbing?


End file.
